Finish
by vanillafluffy
Summary: A young man journeys to New York with mayhem in mind, but someone else has beaten him to the finish. The Comedian is dead. Long live The Comedian? Rated for language.


He is born three days before his country becomes the 51st state. After his aunts dragged his mother's body out of the vulgar bar she was murdered in, they saved her unborn child by cutting her open with a fishing knife and plucking him from her womb. Aunt Am weeps when she tells the story years later, but Aunt Be is dry-eyed. It is she who names him Thanh, which means "finish", and she instructs him that one day, he must avenge his mother's death at the hand of one of their conquerors.

Six years later, they emigrate from Saigon to San Diego. A couple years after that, Los Angeles. Thanh straddles two cultures as he grows up, eating Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes in the school cafeteria for lunch and his aunts' traditional Vietnamese cooking for dinner. By the time he graduates from high school, he speaks fluent Vietnamese---his first language---as well as English and Spanish---the latter acquired as much from his muchachos as from the school's foreign language requirement.

As he matures, the aunts look askance at him. That he is of mixed heritage is clear; the shape of his face is longer and squarer than theirs, his nose a bold mountain ridge. At the same time, Am says that he has their sister's eyes and their father's ears.

The ink on his high school diploma has barely dried when Be hears from a man---whose friend knows a guy---that Thanh's biological father is living in New York City. Thanh dutifully takes the address she's obtained, puts the Beretta she gives him into his backpack and boards a Greyhound bus for the East Coast.

The lengthy trip gives him time to think. The quest that's been bequeathed to him has never seemed quite real---there are a lot of men named Edward Blake in the world, he has discovered---sixteen in Los Angeles alone. How can they be certain that this guy in Manhattan is his father? For him, to shoot the wrong man would make him no better than his mother's murderer.

Disembarking at the Port Authority terminal, Thanh still has reservations as he purchases a map and makes his way uptown. The city looms over him, unlike Los Angeles, and the November wind chills him. The name "Edward Blake" is on a plaque in the lobby, and he manages to circumvent the doorman and make his way upstairs.

Yellow police tape bars the door, and he looks at it in perplexity. But...he's come all this way. How can a thin strip of plastic change everything?

The door isn't locked, he discovers, and heartened by the serendipity, he enters to explore. There's been a fight here, is his first thought. No, a battle. A terrible battle, by the demolished furniture and the shattered granite countertop. Blood flecks the spider-webbed glass that covers the image of a beautiful pin-up, spatters the chunks of polished stone---is it the same blood that flows through his veins?

He moves cautiously through the trashed living room to a luxuriant bedroom. The occupant has money. Then he sees the open closet with its suit of armor and he knows without doubt that this Edward Blake is THE Edward Blake of Be's stories. There are framed news articles and pictures, and they reveal a great and terrible secret. Thanh has grown up hearing stories of the Watchmen, the vigilantes who bring justice to the streets of New York, and now he knows: His father was one of them.

Surely he has gone to stay elsewhere while this shambles is being repaired. Thanh looks at the pictures on the walls, memorizing the features of the man who helped create him. He recognizes the nose, the shape of his chin. He studies the smile for a long time. It's the smile of a man who has no enemies, he decides, because his enemies don't survive long. The weapons hanging among the pictures and paraphernalia attest to this. Aunt Be said his father was a soldier, but she was wrong---this man is no common grunt---he is a warrior.

The Comedian---Edward Blake---his father. Thanh feels angry confusion. Pride that the man is a hero of sorts, fury that a so-called protector of the people could carelessly kill an innocent woman, disappointment that he can't confront the man here and now and be done with it, even if it means dying---for what chance does he have against so skilled an opponent?

It is cold in the apartment---due, no doubt, to the broken window in the living room---and Thanh reaches for one of the jackets hanging there. If it is theft to take this small thing from one who has wronged him so, then he will be a thief and proud to be so. The black leather envelops him, over-sized, but comforting with its warmth and padding. A scent of cigar smoke clings to it. Impulsively, he finds a belt to snug it closer, and black leather gloves...he is startled to find that the gloves fit comfortably. He looks at the shoes and boots, but it takes only a moment to see that they will not work for him.

Staying here is not an option. Aside from the chill from the shattered window, the police may return. He's been careful to touch nothing but what he's taking, and he leaves as circumspectly as he came. He'll have to stake the place out, he decides on his way to a cheap hotel he noted on his way from the bus station.

At first, Thanh thinks he's been given the wrong room key, but when he returns to the front desk to politely ask the clerk about it, the man shrugs laconically and says the previous tenant is in jail. He won't be back any time soon.

Compared to the splendor of Blake's penthouse, the man who had Thanh's room must have been very poor. It's not much of a room. No personal items to be seen, just a newspaper on the nightstand and a piece of cardboard propped up against the wall: a sign reading "The end is nigh". The dresser contains an old pair of sneakers---much too small---some grayish socks and underwear, a couple of shirts and a pair of threadbare jeans, remains of a sad life.

Thanh shakes his head and sits down on the edge of the bed. He reaches for the paper, glances at the date. It's weeks old. Then a bold header catches his eye, and he begins scanning the obituary, incredulity and despair mingling.

His father is dead. Killed during a break-in, the police say. Nothing mentions the Comedian or heralds the dead man as a hero...'retired consultant' is how Blake is listed.

His son doesn't mourn the man he's never met; he feels a shameful relief that he won't have to become a killer himself. He thinks of his aunt's reaction, and a prickle of apprehension touches his spine. Be will be enraged, that the vengeance she planned so carefully has been thwarted. At least he can give her details. The article lists the cemetery where Edward Morgan Blake has been interred. His map shows the location, across the river, far from the towers of glass and steel.

Carefully, Thanh folds the page with the obituary and slips it into his backpack. Although it's growing late, he shrugs on the purloined leather again and exits the hotel.

Streetlights are winking on as he trudges up the steps from the subway. It isn't far to the graveyard, and it doesn't take him long to find the stone marking Edward Blake's final resting place. He'll be able to describe the scene to Be: the name chiseled into the polished granite---much like the granite shattered in Blake's apartment---the view of twinkling lights across the river...from here, it looks pretty, like looking down at Los Angeles from the hills....

The idea of getting back on the filthy subway again holds no allure. It's surprisingly quiet here; Thanh fears no ghosts or muggers. He sits down, his back against the stone facing his father's, flexes his hands in the gloves that once gave the other man warmth. His mind wanders.

The enigma of his father is as great as ever. Even though he now knows the secret of who his father was, the mystery of why he did what he did remains, and Thanh is resigned to never knowing. How could he help liberate a war-torn country and at the same time, murder the mother of his unborn child? There was nothing among Blake's effects that pointed to another family, to any human ties other than his fellow Watchmen. Who will inherit his penthouse, his secrets?

Perhaps he should return there and investigate some more, perhaps if he had the weapons and armor, there is some good that he could do. But how?

There are no Watchmen today. Masked heroes are outlaws now. He cannot atone for the Comedian's misdeeds.

The Comedian...his father...his old man...born in 1918. At 18, 68 is an unimaginable age. What kind of man was his father when he was 18?

Old man...his old man was an old man...maybe he can lie to Aunt Be, describe the hotel room instead of the penthouse and say that Blake died sad and alone...that would make her happy.

The end is near...the headlines on today's papers announce "War!" and threaten nuclear holocaust. What use is revenge if the world is ash?

"Hey!" a voice yells in his ear. "Hey, kid! Wake the fuck up, you're gonna freeze your balls off!"

Thanh struggles to raise his eyelids. He's so tired he doesn't even feel the cold...that's probably not good. The thunderous voice keeps shouting at him, and he groans, says, "What are you trying to do, wake the dead?"

There's a chuckle. When Thanh's eyes focus, he sees a man sitting on Blake's headstone. Correction: He sees Blake sitting on Blake's headstone. "Wake the dead?" Blake says. "That's rich. Good one, kid."

"You're dead," he says to the old man, who nods, puffs on a cigar. This is not the swashbuckling hero from the closet's photographs. Twisted scar tissue from a dead woman's bottle intersects with the wrinkles of age. Although his graying mop of hair has been barbered, probably for the funeral, there's a darkness of five o'clock shadow on his chin. Thanh notices that although the tip of Blake's cigar glows orange, no smoke rises from it. The only cloud in the area is from Thanh's own breath.

What good would it do to shoot a ghost? For if he lived, he would be drawing breath, and if he doesn't, he's dead---so he must be a ghost, and if he's a ghost, he can't be killed---but maybe he can answer some questions.

"Yeah, falling twenty stories will do that to you." The cigar bobs at the corner of Blake's mouth. "Get off your ass and move around. Do it, now!"

"Why do you care?" Thanh says, his limbs stiff with cold and immobility. It takes long moments to work his way to a standing position as his father's ghost regards him. "You didn't give a damn about me when you shot my mother. I'm glad she cut you up!"

One hand goes up to the vandalized side of his face. "You're Le's kid? And that's my jacket---and my gloves! Christ, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree! I met your mom when she tried to pick my pocket in a bar. I guess thieving runs in the family."

"If I had gotten here a few weeks sooner, killing might run in the family, too," Thanh spits back. Anger warms him. He reaches for the backpack, fumbles with the zipper. Even with the gloves on, his fingers don't want to work.

"Ah, look, you've got a popgun!" Blake is amused when he brings out the Beretta. "Do you have any idea how to use that? Hell, do you even know if it's loaded? And you were planning to whack me?" He laughs raucously. "Kid, I like you. You've got balls. Not so sure about brains, but you've definitely got balls."

Thanh fires off several of his choicest Vietnamese insults, provoking further mirth. "Okay, so you get that from my side of the family," says the Comedian. He winks. "That and your good looks. Lucky bastard."

He wants to say that there's nothing he needs or wants from Blake, but how can he, when he stands there in the other man's clothes? It's a joke: His great quest ends with the killer laughing, untouchable and unrepentant. Bastard, ha-ha….

How long has he been here in the graveyard? The sky is lightening---all night? No wonder he's half-frozen and hallucinating about his father.

"Very generous of you," he replies with exquisite sarcasm. "I think I would have preferred to have a mother."

Edward Blake sighs. He's quiet for a moment, looking at Thanh. "Even Dr. Manhattan can't change the past, kid. What's your name, anyway?"

"I'm Thanh."

"'Finish'? Quite a name to live up to. I'll bet that aunt of yours came up with that. The tall, skinny one…Bo?"

"Be." He towers over his aunt; Blake would probably want to take credit for that, too.

"Right, right. Aunt Be." A faint smile plays across his face. "Her and the other sister, they got your mother all worked up about making you legit. Thousands of little half-and-half bastards all over the countryside, and they thought I was gonna bring a war bride back to the mainland and get them all green cards. Look, if Le hadn't gone nutso, I wouldn't've hurt her. Hell, by the time you came along, she would've had food stamps and government housing. Sweet deal."

"You're not sorry, are you?"

"Hell, Thanh, the things I regret could fill the New York City phone book. You get to be my age, you realize the good old days when life was sweet have turned from sugar to shit. There's nothing to look forward to, and it hurts too much to look back and see how many mistakes you made. Screwing up with women? That's Staten Island.

"Let me give you a few life lessons," says the old man. "You know, to make up for all those wonderful father-son moments we never had. Number one, keep your friends close, but your enemies even closer, or better yet, don't bother with friends. They'll let you down every time---sometimes out a window. Two, don't buy into that whole, 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend' bullshit. Nine times out of ten, after they're through with your enemy, they'll come after you."

"What about the tenth time?"

The Comedian smirks. "Sometimes your mutual enemy gets lucky." He gestures with the cigar. "Three, don't fight fair unless you have a death wish. And last, but not least, don't ever start a fight with a pregnant woman. They're nutsy-cuckoo with hormones." Another laugh, but there's no real mirth to the sound.

"Thanks," Thanh says sourly. He puts the gun back into the backpack. All the old ghost stories insist that spirits won't linger in sunlight, but it's full dawn and the contrary presence of Edward Blake remains for one final word.

"It's not much, but that jacket has a zip-out lining. I suggest you zip it out. Here---"

Thanh's eyes dart to the small object his father has thrown, and when he's caught it and looks up, the old man is gone.

It's a flat circular disk...a smiley face.

Puncture marks on the jacket's lapel suggest it's worn this symbol before. Thanh pins it in place with superstitious care. When he looks in the cavity formed between the leather and the quilted lining, he discovers a bundle of cash, a key-case, two cigars, a chrome lighter stamped with the initials EMB and a black leather mask.

He feels as if he's been handed a torch. Perhaps there is something he can do, perhaps a mask can be a symbol of good intent after all. Shrugging into the jacket, he picks up his backpack.

Across the river people are beginning to stir, to get coffee and morning papers and go about their business. A flash erupts from somewhere in the heart of the concrete canyons, and there's a shockwave---the river crests, and he throws himself instinctively to the ground, clinging to Blake's tombstone.

When the water recedes, when he can breathe and lift himself up from the soggy ground, he gazes across to a skyline that's vastly different from what it was five minutes ago. Thanh knows with a great and terrible certainty that the world is forever changed.

Thanh's quest for vengeance is finished. His quest for justice is just beginning.


End file.
